


Lapus Memoriae

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, post-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snowy night, a bottle of firewhisky, the memories of an old affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapus Memoriae

The bells jangled as Severus shut the door of Scrivenshaft's behind him and pulled his cloak tighter against the bitter winter wind. Snow drifted along the cobblestoned streets, piling against lampposts and steps, and candles flickered and gleamed in the frost-covered leaded windows of the houses along the street.

He hesitated for a moment--there were essays waiting for him in his office, and a bottle of whisky as well, and the promise of Borage's latest monograph on the possible uses of _Aquilaria agallocha_\--but there were also students, and not merely the wretched beasts that normally roved the hallways and corridors in scruffy, stinking packs, sniffing out their weaker prey or hiding from potential mauling, but also the spoiled Frenchies with their sneers and twitters as he stalked past and the arrogant Durmstrang brats, so eager to prove their superiority over even his own House.

He loathed the smell of children. Loathed the smell of them and the sight of them and the sound of their wretched little feet pattering through the halls, of their voices, so bloody grating in both whinging and laughter.

Severus crossed the street and made his way down the narrow, cramped alley.

The sign--a clumsily painted wild boar's head leaking blood into a white cloth--creaked in the wind. The building was ramshackle, threatening to fall in on itself, and the reek of goats was nearly overwhelming as Severus pushed open the door.

The pub stilled for a moment, heads turning suspiciously, eyes narrowing until the barman nodded at him with a grunt and a mumbled _Pr'fessor_ as he reached for a bottle of firewhisky.

The table in the corner Severus favoured was free, or would be the moment Severus removed the two hags who had appropriated it. A purse of thin lips and a glower sent them scampering across the room, casting sullen grimaces back at him beneath their balaclavas. He bared his teeth in return and sat, breaking the wax seal on the bottle with a pleased sigh.

Severus was three glasses into the firewhisky--wretched cack, barely palatable, but suitable for his purposes this evening--when, with an overdramatic sweep of a fur-trimmed cloak, the chair across from him was pulled out.

"We need to talk."

Severus swallowed, grimacing at the burn of the alcohol down his gullet, and he set the dirty glass on the table with a sharp plunk, noting idly that one of the smeared fingerprints looked rather like a troll's thumb. "Generally, Igor, it's considered bad form in Britain to sit without being invited. Even in such highbrow establishments as this."

Karkaroff pulled his ushanka off and shoved it in his pocket. His hair stood up in tufts; he smoothed it back with a gesture old and oddly familiar. Severus looked away.

"It's ridiculous of you to keep avoiding the issue, Severus. We have to know what to do." Karkaroff tilted the half-empty bottle and poured two fingerfuls of whisky into Severus's abandoned glass before lifting it to his mouth. He drained it with a sigh. "We've too much to lose now, the both of us. We're not boys any longer, playing at taking over the world." He leaned forward and his hand shook as he cluctched Severus's arm. "Fourteen years makes a grand difference. You know that as well as I. Are you willing to give up your comforts for subservience again?"

Severus looked away, staring out the window, and watching the snow fall lightly, shimmering in the lamplight.

"I didn't think so," Karkaroff said, slumping back into his chair with a sigh. "We're old now, you know. Too old for this." He laughed, but it was hollow and empty of mirth. "Then however..."

He looked at Severus with dark eyes, and Severus's stomach clenched.

_Kisses stolen in secondary corridors at Malfoy Manor, Severus's back against a twelfth century tapestry, much to the annoyance of the Knights Templar woven into the wool. Igor pressed against him, the scratch of his dark beard sharp against Severus's cheek, their tongues sliding together with each gasp of breath. The guttural words whispered against his throat in hisses and glottal stops--_krasivy, krasivy, ty ochen krasivy_\--and Severus knew he wasn't beautiful--his father had made certain he was aware of exactly how ugly he truly was--but for that one moment, as Igor's teeth and tongue moved across his skin, as his fingers pushed through the heavy wool of Severus's robe to curl around his cock, thumb stroking across the damp head, as Severus gasped and twisted against the tapestry, his hands tight on Igor's shoulders--for that one moment, Severus believed him. _

Severus took the glass back and his hand barely trembled as he poured more whisky. A few drops splashed on the tabletop, then sank into the blackened, grimy wood with a sizzle and a wisp of smoke. "We were idiots. Fools."

"Perhaps." Karkaroff was watching him still with those damned dark eyes--those eyes that had softened when looking down at Severus, lying beneath him in their bed, his legs wrapped tight around Igor's hips as they moved together with sharp gasps and moans, those eyes that had narrowed at Tobias Snape as Igor had spat the curses at him, his wand barely trembling despite the man's pained screams, those eyes that had promised--and Severus couldn't bear it any longer. Those eyes had seen his very soul. He swallowed his whisky and stood up too quickly, nearly upsetting the table.

Promises were made to be broken.

"Students," he said, not looking at those eyes, and the whisky had burned his throat it seemed because his voice was harsh and pained. "I have work awaiting me."

He made it outside, stumbling into the cold air, and he took a gasp of it, letting it sting his lungs and his skin. And then a hand curled around his and he was pulled out of the wind and the snow into the side alley and pressed against the rough brick wall of the pub and Karkaroff's mouth was hard against his. It was a wretched kiss--a clash of teeth and tongues that was painful in its urgency, but Severus twisted his fingers in the fur around Karkaroff's throat, pulling him closer with a groan.

He tasted the same as he had all those years past--whisky and cigarettes and garlic and rye--and Severus devoured him, his teeth sharp on Karkaroff's bottom lip.

"I came because of you," Karkaroff whispered into his mouth. "When they asked for the tournament, I knew you were here and I wanted--" he groaned as Severus bit his jaw, baring his throat to Severus's teeth "--wanted to see you, my _krasivy_," and Severus believed him at that moment because he needed to, he wanted to, and Karkaroff 's hand was stroking him through his robe and his cock ached and he wanted--Christ. Here in the alley reeking of piss and goats, here against the bricks like a common whore, and that only made him want it more, want him more--and he twisted in Karkaroff's hands, pulling away with a gasp and his fingers were on the buttons of his frock coat until Karkaroff pushed them away with a snort.

_"Too damn many buttons," Igor had laughed, sending them scattering across the floor of Severus's flat with a sharp jerk of his wrist and Severus hadn't even protested as he leaned back, grasping the edge of the worktable, because Igor was on his knees then, his hands sliding down Severus's bare stomach, pulling his trousers open and his mouth slid down Severus's cock, slick warm velvet, wet and hot and--_

"Merlin." Severus clawed at the brick behind him. His overrobe was crumpled on the dirty snow and his cock was hot in the cold wind and then Karkaroff 's tongue ran up the underside again, along the thick vein and Severus groaned.

It'd been so long.

So fucking long since he'd been to London last and hired the Muggle boy he'd found in SoHo to take him back to that dingy, pathetic flat, sweltering in the heat of August, and fuck him into the thin, stained mattress. Months--and he gasped as Karkaroff 's fingers slipped beneath his balls, stroking lightly across the creped, warm skin, lifting them and Christ they were so heavy--months since this, since he'd been sucked and since he'd been stroked and since his hole had been stretched by a cock and he needed it now--needed to forget that damned Mark burning, burning, burning into his bones.

Needed Igor.

His fingers twisted in thick grey-black hair, jerking Karkaroff's head back, away from his spittle-wet cock and Karkaroff groaned and cursed in vicious Russian until Severus turned toward the wall and looked back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

His tongue was hot and thick and his hands were tight on Severus's arse, pulling him open as he pressed into him and the scrape of his beard against chilled skin caused Severus to dig his fingernails into the crumbling mortar, his face pressed against the rough brick as he thrust his hips back with a cry.

"More," he gasped, and Karkaroff chuckled against his skin, with the galling smugness of an old lover, and Severus nearly hexed him, but Karkaroff 's tongue was gone, to be replaced by his finger and Severus groaned at the sharp burn of skin against skin

"The spell, you fool," he spat out, pressing against that finger, and the pain was delicious. "Or has it been so long you've been up a man's arse that you've forgotten?"

The finger twisted sharply in him and Severus hissed, his hands scrabbling at the wall, and then a liquid warmth flooded his hole, slick and wet and stinging in a far more pleasurable manner as another finger pressed in.

"Better?" Karkaroff said, amused, his breath warm against the back of Severus's bare thigh, and Severus cursed him, rocking back against that brilliant hand. His cock was hard and heavy, swinging in front of him, batting against his open shirt, and he felt Karkaroff move behind him, standing and he shivered at what he knew would come next.

_"Steady there," Igor had said, breathlessly, as Severus had bucked up against him, staring up at him in wonder. "I'm too close--" _

And Severus had laughed, hooking his foot around Igor's hip and pressing up again, his cock slipping wet and heavy against Igor's stomach. "Isn't that the point?"

"Isn't what the point?" Karkaroff said against his ear and Severus groaned at the slow slide of cock into his arse. He loved this--loved the press of bodies, the slick stretch of his arse, the pain of taking a thick cock into him. He denied himself too often, he thought with a gasp as Karkaroff thrust into him again, the blunt head of his cock burrowing deeper into Severus's body, and he lifted up on the balls of his feet, his head falling back as he sucked in the cold, snowy air.

Their groans echoed in the narrow alley, their panting breaths harsh against the cobblestones and brick. "More," Severus insisted again, rocking back into Karkaroff's hips and he swore as Karkaroff's fingers twisted around his cock, slick and hot with each sharp pull and slide.

He wanted--oh Christ he wanted, like a whore, a slattern, and it was good, each thrust and tug and Severus's head was against Karakaroff's shoulder and their mouths were together, tongues pressing and teeth biting and he could feel it twist inside of him, that need and that want and he was being fucked, fucked in an alley and he felt alive for the first time in months with this cock thrusting into him, hot and heavy and his hips bucked forward and he grabbed at Karkaroff's hand, pulling it harder and faster as he grunted and--oh God, yes, please--there--_please_\--

He slumped forward, into the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his sticky hand sliding with Karkaroff's back down his cock, and the strings of come stretched down the wall in front of him, grey-white against sooty brick, and his hips moved languidly against each rapid thrust of Karkaroff's as he gasped in Severus's ear--_krasivy, krasivy, ty ochen krasivy, _ echoing louder against the walls until he came with a groaning, shuddering thrust--and Severus knew he lied.

Igor always lied.

They stood there for a long moment, their breaths ragged and heaving and the snow swirling across their heated skin and then Karkaroff turned his head, catching Severus's mouth with his.

_"Krasivy," Igor had whispered against Severus's lips the night before, but now he stood before him, looking away as Severus stared at him, his mouth dry, his brain reeling at these new words. _ Durmstrang, professor, engagement, wife. _ The silence stretched out between them, heavy and uncomfortable, and then Igor turned away, and the door closed behind him, and for the last time ever, Severus's heart collapsed, cold and thick within him. _

He buttoned his frock coat slowly, knowing Karkaoff's eyes were on him, and he draped his cloak--wet with snow and stinking of piss and sweat and rotted food--over his arm.

"I'll come by tonight," Karkaroff said, staring at Severus's mouth. "After the students--"

Severus raised an eyebrow, cutting him off. "Bad form to invite oneself, Igor," he said smoothly, turning away. "Really, the etiquette at Durmstrang must be atrocious."

A hand caught his elbow. "Then invite me, you fool," Karkaroff said, moving closer and those eyes caught Severus again, taking away his breath for a moment and he was tempted, until Karkaroff brushed his moth along Severus's jaw, whispering _krasivy_ as he had so very long ago, and Severus jerked away.

"Good evening, Igor," he said with a curt nod, and his smile was cold and thin at the flash of anger and understanding in those beautiful dark eyes.

The snow piled higher on the iron arms of the lampposts as he hurried down the street, back to Hogwarts and his rooms.

A warm fire and a glass of Macallan and a stack of pathetically laughable essays eager to be decimated with his best raven quill and the promise of Borage's treatise when work was through.

He touched his left arm, feeling the quiet burn of the Mark on its rise to the surface once more. He shivered and turned his steps home.


End file.
